


Winter's End

by Graculus



Category: Marvel (Comics), The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Community: picfor1000, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:53:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1250041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graculus/pseuds/Graculus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dinner companion brings a little extra to the table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter's End

She was perfect. If he'd been here for any other reason, she would have been just what he'd always wanted, even though he'd never known it. 

Sitting opposite her, that was the only thing Napoleon Solo could think, the only way he could possibly describe the woman with whom he currently shared a table. Everything about her was elegant, poised and under complete control – only the slight tapping of her manicured nails on the surface of her snakeskin handbag betrayed any sense of frustration or boredom with the situation in which she currently found herself. 

“More wine?” Napoleon asked, more for something to say while he figured out what to do next. He lifted the bottle, tipping it slightly towards his reluctant companion. “We can order another bottle when this one's done.” She shook her head.

“I can see you want to be here just as much as I want to be here,” she said, after a moment's silence had hung between them. “Let's not pretend otherwise.”

Let's not pretend at all, the undercurrent of the conversation went. A dangerous play, for people in their particular line of work, people on opposite sides forced to work together. 

“You're right,” he said. “But that doesn't mean we can't enjoy a good meal and a nice glass of wine while we conduct our business.”

In response, his companion nodded slightly, straightening in her seat almost imperceptibly as the waiter arrived with their starter. She was dangerous, even sheathed in a dress that clung to every curve and shimmered whenever she moved – maybe more so because of how she was dressed, how this would make people underestimate her, which would clearly be a mistake. 

“Looks good,” Napoleon said, picking up his soup spoon. 

He'd ordered deliberately, choices that could give his dinner companion the feeling that he was somehow less skilled at this particular dance than she was. And maybe he was, he couldn't know for sure; it didn't hurt to let her think that was the case. If it would help, he'd slurp his soup like a hick, but that would probably be a step too far, even if he could bring himself to overcome years of polite society to manage it in the first place. She wasn't a fool, he couldn't ever forget that, so he shouldn't try too hard to get the upper hand by tricks of the trade. 

“He said I could trust you,” she said, between the smallest of mouthfuls, fork held in the European style. “He doesn't always remember his life before, but he said that.”

Napoleon felt his fingers tighten on his spoon, watching the skin over his knuckles whiten almost as if he was observing it from afar, surveillance on someone else who didn't have quite so much to lose if this all went south. 

“I want to believe you, but...” She nodded again, he didn't have to finish that sentence – it would have been insulting to do so, to both of them. 

“But you want proof.” She put down the fork, aware of the way Napoleon was watching her – was she more dangerous with something in her hands or without? - fingers returning to the snakeskin bag. “I understand.”

He found himself leaning forward, prepared for anything to emerge from it – it was big enough to conceal weaponry of a variety of sorts – only to find himself relaxing at the sight of a gold chain, a small gold medal. He didn't need to handle it, just the sight of it was enough. That's what he told himself, even as his fingers itched to touch it, the need to posess just that one thing of Illya's almost too much to bear. 

“That proves you had him, not that he's still alive.” 

If anything, it probably proved that Illya wasn't alive, since he wouldn't have willingly given that up – it was all he had left of his family, after all, and it had always surprised Napoleon that he even wore it on missions, given the ever-present risk of capture. 

It was so minute he could have missed it, would have missed it if he hadn't been looking at her face – her lips, immaculately made up, quirked slightly in the tiniest of smiles, gone in the blink of an eye. 

“He said you'd say that,” she replied – was it his imagination or was her voice a fraction warmer, as if he'd passed some important test? - “but I had to show it to you anyway.” 

Her hand returned to the bag; this time, she removed a key card, placing it carefully down on the tablecloth beside the medal. That lay where she'd left it, lying on the table with its chain coiled around it.

“If he was alive, he'd have contacted me by now.”

Beside him, as if they were actors in a tableau, the waiter had appeared soundlessly and removed their plates, acting as if he saw this kind of exchange everyday. Perhaps this kind of high class establishment was inured to drama, to the subtle dance of agencies with initials instead of names. Around them, conversations ebbed and flowed, a low buzz of words.

“He wasn't himself,” she said, her hand returning to the bag, fingers closing it with one deft movement. “He said something about remembering your missions together, something about a soufflé.” 

Despite himself, Napoleon felt his face relax a little at her words; so mundane a comment and so very unlikely to be false. Who else would know that detail of one of their missions, after all? No-one in UNCLE, it had never been mentioned in their report, and why would anyone grasp on that as proof of life instead of something that seemed more significant?

“Room 618.” She stood, picking up her bag, the other hand absently smoothing out non-existent wrinkles from her still-immaculate dress. “Look after him.”

“Always,” Napoleon replied, moving to pull out her chair, his hand palming both the medal and the keycard in the same move. “Always.”


End file.
